Regret
by GloriaNewt
Summary: A little one-shot that I wrote today describing when Constance discovers the love that one cannot have, truly is the one that lasts the longest, hurts the deepest and is felt the strongest...


**Authors Note: Another little one-shot that I wrote today where our favourite potions mistress discovers the love that one cannot have truly is the one that lasts the longest, hurts the deepest and feels the strongest. Apologies if this may seem a little OOC, but I wanted to explore a slightly different angle. **

**Reviews and PM's always welcomed!**

Night was falling across the land, tracing its inky shadows across the dying sky, extinguishing the fiery red glare as the day surrendered to its impending, certain fate once more. Nature's way of providing a clean slate, a fresh start as the events of the previous day were cast forever into history, the fine, pale sands of time filtering irretrievably into the hourglass of existence.

Far up in the high tower of Cackles Academy, a tall, elegant witch stood wistfully surveying the dusky sky, still finding the emotional capacity to be captivated by this wondrous, unstaged display although it felt as if her heart were splitting in two underneath the pressure of the unbearable pain that was crushing her from the inside out as effectively as if she had attempted to bear the weighty mass of the entire world upon her narrow shoulders.

"What have I done…" she whispered hoarsely, placing her tender head in her hands, feeling the cool caress of her slender fingers upon her fevered forehead as she rested her slight elbows on the glassless window ledge, the faint evening breeze fanning her burning cheeks as she allowed the first tears in a decade to cascade down her gaunt face, the forbidden display of feelings finally coming to the fore as the salty droplets clung to the painfully exposed, razor-sharp cheek bones that protruded somewhat alarmingly from her alabaster skin. She wept for what had been lost, the perfect fantasy that could never have been realistically fulfilled that now lay exposed and shot-down in a spiral of flames and acrid smoke, the realisation of fact that the only feeling that her aching heart had always desired was not to be returned.

This was why she bottled her emotions. They only ever caused her trouble. She found herself wishing in vain that feelings were as easily categorical as the treasured ingredients of her beloved potions cupboard, being able to use her extensive knowledge of the exacting art to know exactly what combination of honesty and restraint would bear the correct solution to her agonisings, being able to measure ounce for ounce the correct amount of affection to relinquish, but no. Love could not be manipulated that way.

She was in a mess and she knew it. Her iron resolves weakened, leaving her vulnerable due to the stress fracture had appeared in the metal that was her usual impenetrable armour, and she surrendered to another banned temptation. With a remorseful, almost abandoned wave of her delicate hand, several bottles appeared on the table, aged by the fine layer of dust that had accumulated upon their smooth, dark green surface, distorting the spidery, elaborate writing of the papery labels beneath. Her violently shaking hand was in no fit state to safely control the path of the bottle, so another careful flick of the wrist propelled the vessel gently into the air as it poured a large measure into the clear crystal goblet in front of her, the melodic splash tinkling against the cool acoustic of the glass, lowering in pitch as the volume rose inside the comforting container.

"Alcohol, another crutch for the weak-willed," she had told herself firmly after regarding the shambolic, drunken antics of her colleagues at the annual Christmas celebrations. "And yet," as she traced the rim of the glass with an extended bony finger, listening to the eerie resonating, high-pitched sound, mournful yet hopeful. "What was to be lost by allowing the numbing escapism to wash over her?" Allowing her a temporary respite from her torturous frame of mind, she raised the glass to her dark lips, the first of many to come; it was clutched tightly between her trembling hands as she dared to take her first mouthful in years of the dark, intoxicating liquid.

She swallowed, the large gulp of alcohol burning her throat slightly, flaming her sensitive flesh, bringing a slight sting behind her hazel eyes. She shuddered involuntarily as a blaze of warmth travelled down her oesophagus, leaving a faint tingle as the fading heat was extinguished by the ice that was already growing over her pierced, bleeding heart, reforming the protective cocoon that had shielded her so well for so long, assisting in the anesthetising of the raw feeling that was gripping her chest in its tight, unrelenting vice.

She stared deeply into the eddying garnet liquid, the blood-red sheen of the velvety solution glinting brightly in the candlelight. She swirled the goblet lightly, watching the ruby stain wash around in a whirlpool, appearing on the sides of the vessel, casting its crimson shadows over the crystal walls, oozing slowly back to re-join the settling contents of the glass, like a blood stained representation of the tears that were now rolling unnoticed down her icy complexion.

Her life had always been loveless and alone, and all the Ice Maiden had wanted to do was find the inner strength to reach out to somebody, to find the courage to surrender her defences and allow herself to finally confide and trust, to permit a soothing presence to gain access to her in her tortured existence. Her heart's desire was only to be loved, to be cherished and comforted, to find somebody that was capable of deconstructing her mental barriers and stumbling on the buried beauty below and to clamber through the metaphorical wreckage and rubble of her soul to rescue her from her impending fate.

Despair was not an emotion that usually dared to enter the psyche of the controlled deputy head, but it had swamped her in her current predicament. It had been unbelievably hard to accept the foreign feeling that coursed through her at the very mention of that goddess's name- love was alien enough, but the thought of an emotional attachment to a woman had scared her as well. The feeling had frightened her beyond belief, the uncontrollable thump of her anxious heart that felt as if an entire military tattoo was being staged inside it such were the magnitude of the hammering beats, the rise of nerves in her chest at the very sight of her heart's desire that felt as if her frail body had been hit by a tsunami, leaving her winded and shaking with adrenaline after each brief encounter, fighting for her breath as if she had just run a marathon. There was no rational intent behind these feelings, nothing that she could seize and analyse to satisfy the logical yearnings of her exasperated mind, just the overwhelming, terrifying outburst of emotion.

"Imogen…" she breathed, the name running off her tongue like a clear, exquisite honey, sweet yet beautiful as each precious syllable gently caressed the air around her, bathing it in a celestial, golden light. A name that had been created by Shakespeare, the true master of the English language, which danced with vitality and spirit.

She gritted her teeth, wincing as the recollections hit her full in the face, delivering stinging slaps to her confidence and pride as she tried to ponder what the implications of such a disastrous act would be. It was no good, she would have to leave; their working relationship couldn't survive after her outburst today, besides, she doubted she could remain within a hundred miles of the perfect woman after the events of this evening. It would be like constantly picking at the protective scab that covered her broken heart, worrying away at it with well-sharpened fingernails until the body's conjured defences relented once more and the wound reopened, bleeding as profusely as it did before.

xxx

It had all seemed so perfect.

She had been strolling care freely in the fading afternoon light, searching for fungi and herbs for her precious potions, carrying her wicker basket at her side as she swept through the tangled undergrowth of the forest, her heeled leather boots leaving a dainty imprint in the fresh, earthy soil as her miniscule weight pushed down upon the compacted organic material. She enjoyed these rare moments of solitude when she could escape hustle and bustle of everyday life at the academy and merely appreciate the simplistic beauty that was offered in plentiful supply in the surrounding woodland, to be able to taste the fresh, rich smell of the autumnal scents that were fading as the life forms began to brace themselves for the icy chill of winter that was poised to strike, the glorious blaze of reds, oranges and gold a triumphant last hurrah before the bleakness eradicated the weak and infirm, providing nature's cleansing purge to establish the seeds of new growth in the spring. She stooped to pick a particularly handsome specimen of fungus, sending a gentle volley of sparks to detach it harmlessly from its supportive stem, careful not to risk breaking any of the fragile, downy, pinkish-grey lamellae that hide underneath before placing it into her nearly full basket.

She felt the faint, steady thud of running feet resonating from the well-trodden path in front of her and raised her all too willing eyes to the stunning woman who had paused to wave in greeting, glad to be able to gain a slight respite from the gruelling demands of her cross-country run. The weak sunlight was filtering through the leafy canopy, channelling into a perfectly focused spot-light over her head, a crown of light, highlighting her stunning, tousled blonde hair, the gleam of her perfect, small white teeth present in glorious contrast to her tanned features, Queen of all she surveyed as a welcoming grin spread across her face, life dancing in her glinting green eyes.

"Hello, Miss Hardbroom!" she gasped, her hand clutched to her side in a bid to alleviate the sudden cramp that had hit her.

Always "Miss Hardbroom", never "Constance" reflected the potions teacher sadly as she pulled herself to her feet. Like the girls, the only side to her that was ever seen by her colleagues was the strict, controlled, authoritarian figure whose identity she had assumed as part of her immaculate defences long, long ago- a separate persona almost at times, and the paradox who aided her protection from the scrutiny of the outside world. She cast a concerned look at the doubled-over PE mistress, wanting to alleviate her pain that she was evidently suffering from.

"Are you quite alright, Imogen?" she enquired gently, taking a small step towards the other woman.

"Just cramp…" winced Miss Drill, rubbing her aching sides in a bid to remove the build-up of lactic acid that was causing her oxygen-starved muscles to scream in protest.

"Allow me," said Constance softly as she reached out and placed her icy fingertips gently against the firm, toned flesh that was still slightly dewy with sweat, casting a remedial spell that lifted the agonising symptoms immediately, earning her a grateful look from Imogen.

"Thank you, Constance," she smiled, the first time that she had dared to utter the Christian name of that majestic, unreachable woman, daring to exploit the slight glimpse into the private witch that she was having before the usual shutters came down. She glanced down at the trembling fingers that were still pressed gently against her side.

"It's alright, the spell's worked…" she reassured, closing her supple fingers around Constance's and gently removing her hand from her side, shocked at how she could feel the movement of every tendon underneath the emaciated flesh, count every single bone underneath her touch, the warmth from her skin radiating into Constance's freezing body.

The feel of another human's touch nearly brought tears to Constance's hazel eyes. It had been years since she had felt the deliberate touch of another, and a kindly concern being shared was an even rarer occurrence. It was almost as if she could feel the regenerative warmth creeping through her, melting the ice that was lodged in her frozen soul, unleashing her barely beating heart from its confined slumber, her long since hidden emotions returning to her from their eternal migration, the long hibernation coming to an end as the caring touch rekindled her interest in life, spring finally breaking through after the never ceasing winter, the first buds of interaction beginning to blossom into life. Carried away on the moment of realisation, it was almost as if somebody had drugged her with a potent Truth Serum, a metaphorical weed killer to her burgeoning hopes as her long supressed desires surfaced at the most inappropriate of moments, she was left desperately trying to stem the flow of those damning words- the words that were out of her literary control that were spilling ceaselessly from her lips, betraying her darkest inner confidences, dashing the illusion of reciprocation in one fell swoop as the blondes sparkling eyes did not ignite with returned sentiment and passion. They remained as unengaged as ever, but took on a slightly puzzled hew. Never had Constance shown any form of emotion. Her controlled spectrum only allowed for dignity, order and serenity- not the illogical romantic utterances that being spoken in front of her.

Time seemed to hang still as the fateful words escaped her mouth, never able to be retrieved.

"I love you..."

Who'd have thought that three words could have put her entire future into question at Cackles. One minute slip and the hours of telling herself that her feelings were irrelevant faded into nonexistence, a failed attempt to prevent the unfolding disaster. She clapped a bony hand over her shocked mouth in a bid to stem the incriminatory flow of treachery to her supressed feelings.

"I'm sorry?..." Imogen questioned slightly incredulously, "Did you just say…"

Her mouth fell wide open.

"Forget it," whispered the mortified witch as she brushed past in a flurry of black, "Please, just forget everything that I said," her voice caught in her throat and she dematerialised rapidly, leaving nothing but a faint sob behind her.

Xxx

The delusion that she had irrationally allowed her addled mind to project that Imogen would somehow reciprocate was torn down painfully by the bitter situation, the cold light of day striking home well and truly. She must have been foolish beyond belief, she thought as she lovingly cradled her glass of wine. Imogen had Serge- her Canadian knight in shining armour, solid, strong, level-headed, resourceful and determined. A perfect match that had inevitably sparked the then indescribable alien feeling of jealousy in her, like an intravenous drip placed into her bloodstream, the bitter poison raged at the sight of Imogen resting her head on his shoulder, staring into his chocolaty eyes with a shared devotion as they shared a tender embrace, Serge placing a soft kiss upon the nape of Imogen's tanned neck. A devotion that she would never be part of. Serge and Imogen. A match made in heaven.

She drained the remaining dregs of the bottle into the glass. She had no tears left to shed.

She would have to bear the pain, to add it to the already crippling emotional burden that she carried. To leave Cackles would be the final straw, to have the last place of sanctuary that she knew that she could trust to be taken away as a consequence of her own selfish actions. She really would be better off dead if her home were to be taken from her as well, to be cast into the unforgiving wilderness where her past yearned to catch up with her and dole out another round of vicious punishment upon her cursed existence. It wouldn't take much to place a memory charm on Imogen, to erase the events permanently from her memory. An act that wouldn't do much to clear her conscience, but it would help to ease the shame and humiliation that she would face upon a daily basis if she were to grit her teeth and continue here.

It had taken weeks, months, of preparation, allowing herself to firstly accept the love that she felt, and now she must reluctantly step back, learn to unpick those frayed, faded threads from amidst the tapestry of her life, trying to move on, to come to terms with the inescapable reality that Imogen was, and always would be out of reach.

**This fic is a little dedication to Kate Duchene, the wonderful actress who bought Constance Hardbroom to life, whose birthday happens to be today!**

**A little additional note of thanks to LongVodka for her help as well :)**


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